


Masquerade

by thisbluespirit



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dancing, F/M, diplomatic missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22722136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/pseuds/thisbluespirit
Summary: Obi-Wan's not used to wearing any kind of mask to go about his business; Padméis.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 14
Kudos: 106
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosestone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosestone/gifts).



> A late treat for you!
> 
> With thanks to Persiflage (as ever) for the beta. Also for allbingo square "Nasturtium - Conquest."

“You can’t just stand there,” Padmé hisses, not slowing her pace as she passes Obi-Wan, leading him into one of the shadowed alcoves behind the nearest pillar.

Obi-Wan glances back out at the large hall, full of Kreyal’s dignitaries as well as the rest of their party mingled in among them. The music draws to a close and the dancers fall back.

“Well, I certainly can’t dance,” he says.

Padmé moves in nearer. “I’d hate to accuse you of lying,” she says, “but you’re making that difficult.” 

She remembers Qui-Gon talking about Jedi seeing into the future; at least enough so that it’s why they seem to have such impossibly quick reflexes. And a dance is more stylised, more predictable than most people’s movements, especially the sedate, formal sort the Margrave’s court on Kreyal seem to prefer. Therefore Obi-Wan _can_ dance, even if he doesn’t technically know how. Which she’s not entirely sure she believes anyway.

Padmé lets go of the glass in her hand, watching him. He catches it almost before she fully loosens her hold, and passes it back with a raised eyebrow.

“Careless of you, Senator.”

She isn’t being careless. _He_ is. Padmé lifts her chin. This is her mission, her territory, and Obi-Wan shouldn’t even be here. He wouldn’t be if the Chancellor hadn’t insisted on it, for Padmé’s protection – her safety. And what is that worth if it jeopardises the talks? The Kreyal are halfway to joining the Separatists already, and their one condition in allowing her to carry out these negotiations? _No Jedi._ And Obi-Wan is not making this easy, no matter how good his intentions. 

“You should have let the glass drop,” she says, and watches as realisation passes over his features, followed by a tiny wince. 

He meets her gaze again, this time his expression wry. “I take your point.”

Unlike her, he’s not so used to wearing a disguise to do his duty. She’s worn the mask that is the Queen, she’s played Senator to an audience of thousands, she’s switched places with her handmaidens and back again too many times to remember. Which of those is the true Padmé? Perhaps all and none of them. Obi-Wan might need to fade into the background or hide in the shadows on missions, or cover things over with a few Jedi mind tricks, but as a Jedi he’s spent all his life following the truth of himself. And, right now, unfortunately for the mission, it shows.

“Borrowed robes aren’t enough,” she says, waving a hand at the muted light blue and navy tunic and robe he’s wearing. “Not if you’re going to stand there with your arms folded, watching for any sign of danger.” 

He glances down at himself, and then back at her. “Believe me, I’m not any happier about my presence here than you are.”

She smiles, her stance softening. “I know. And it’s not a bad thing that you don’t find it easy to be anything other than what you are. But right now it could ruin this mission and maybe even get us all killed. So, you’re going to have to dance. If you can’t, and you fall over, I won’t mind. Nobody’ll believe you’re a Jedi, then!”

He laughs. “Oh, I expect I can do better than that.”

“That’s what I thought.” She holds out her hand to him, as the musicians begin again, and his fingers close around hers. “In any case, you’re just an assistant on the diplomatic staff. It’s not your place to argue with a Senator.”

He leads her out, but murmurs in her ear, “That doesn’t sound very democratic.”

“Well, not when I’m giving a direct order.” She smiles. She’s got her point across and she trusts him not to repeat the same error. He still seems so obviously a Jedi to her, though, but she hopes that’s only because she knows the truth. She curses the Chancellor again, and wishes they’d sent someone else, before she bites her lip, trying to picture which of the Jedi she has in mind. Master Windu, probably frowning everyone into stopping the dance, or Master Yoda, impossible to disguise on any world. She bites back a nervous desire to giggle. There must be _some_ Jedi who are inconspicuous… she just can’t think of any that she knows.

It’s a good distraction, because otherwise she’d have to think about the consequences of getting what she asked for: facing Obi-Wan across the formal line of dancers, passing hand to hand, and then turning, his arm around her waist, lifting her feet off the ground for the barest of seconds, and it won’t do to let her mind dwell on that. 

“What’s so funny?” he says, as they pass again, following the set movements of an unfamiliar dance that nevertheless feels like one they know of old. “I did warn you that I don’t dance.”

She’s tempted to let him believe that is what she’s laughing at. It would be safer: don’t let him see too much, because he always is a Jedi, whatever he’s pretending. Don’t let him sense how the heat rises to her cheeks, how she can’t keep her heart from racing, or how unsteady she feels. She’s no wish to make a fool of herself; she only wants to fool him.

“Oh,” she says, because she’s always been too soft-hearted, under any mask, “I was only thinking they should have sent some other, er, member of your Order. And then –” She laughs.

Obi-Wan’s eyes gleam with matching amusement. His mouth twitches. “Ah. Yes. Out of interest, who _would_ you have preferred?”

“I’ve decided,” she says breathlessly, aware of his arm briefly around her again in the shifting steps of the dance, “that it may as well be you.”

“Oh, thank you.”

And when the music ends with them standing close, face to face, and he draws back to bow, he says, more seriously, “Nevertheless. You might need me.”

“I hope not,” she returns, her hand on his arm, increasing the pressure as he moves to walk away from the dance floor. “In the meantime, I’ll take the next dance, too.”

He looks down at her, his expression reproachful. “Senator, surely that was sufficient to –”

No, not sufficient, she thinks guiltily. Not sufficient at all. “Come on. I think it’s better if you stay where I can see you. Plus you can ensure my safety without being so obvious.”

Obi-Wan bows again. “In that case, I’d be delighted, my lady. May I?” He holds out his hand. “Although if I’m merely a junior member of staff, won’t people have things to say?”

“Not the truth, and that’s what matters,” she says pointedly, evading the question, because while she hasn’t met the Margrave of Kreyal before, she’s met his ambassador and she knows exactly what he’d think: the Senator is amusing herself with a pretty member of her staff. She’s playing with fire enough as it is without telling Obi-Wan that.

“Spoken like a politician,” he says, and she feels herself flush, stung a little, even if she can’t argue. He smiles, though, and catches her gaze; his eyes very blue suddenly as he asks, in careful innocence, “So what else do you want me to do to prove I’m not – what I am?”

Padmé catches her breath. “For now,” she says, “another dance will do.”

It’s yet another diplomatic lie.


End file.
